


Of Murderers and Midemeanours

by araliya



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-26 00:41:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15652254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/araliya/pseuds/araliya
Summary: Ugh, I can’t make a summary without spoiling the fic. However, I can guarantee fluff, fluff, fluff. And taking advantage of Chris’ hatred for horror movies.





	Of Murderers and Midemeanours

Chris wakes to the very clear and very terrifying sound of someone in his kitchen. He’s a light sleeper, his apartment is small enough that sound carries easily, and right now, Chris can without a doubt, hear  _someone sliding a drawer open._

 

 _Knives_ , is his immediate thought.  _I’m going to be murdered by my own cutlery._

 

He wills himself to swing his legs out of bed, heart beating traitorously loud. At that very moment Brian makes an indignant yelp, having been unceremoniously shunted from his cocoon. Chris freezes. If he could hear a drawer slide open just one room away, he’s completely certain the intruder has just heard his damn cat.

 

 _You’re an adult now_ , Chris reminds himself, shaking the blood back into his limbs. _If you’re not going to save yourself, no one else will._

 

He looks around for a weapon, a roll of newspaper,  _anything_ , and his eyes fall on the spindly black lamp on his bedside table. It had been a Christmas gift from some aunt or another, and he hadn’t the heart to tell her he thought it looked like a severed spider’s leg.

 

Grabbing it, Chris is suddenly grateful to her- it makes for a menacing weapon.

 

Ignoring the pounding in his ears, Chris tiptoes out, brandishing the lamp like a damsel in a dressing gown, futilely wielding a flimsy broomstick against the bad man who will inevitably kill her and stuff her in a closet.

 

Brian slithers past his ankles and out of the door. It’s this that makes Chris  _finally_  put an end to the stream of worst-case scenarios running through his head, and  _actually_  move his feet- to protect the cat that blew his cover in the first place. After all, don’t serial killers love to brutally murder the defenceless pets before they move onto their real prey?

 

Chris swallows his building nausea and ventures out, lamp held in front of him like a shield. He fumbles blindly for the light switch in the hallway- things are seeming more and more like a horror film where the stupid white person dies within the first three minutes- and the room is filled with bright white light.

 

Chris braces himself for an impact, for an axe murderer, for his first glimpse of a poltergeist with a fondness for cookery, and there’s-

 

Nothing.

 

Instead, Darren stands at the counter, hand on hip and wooden spoon in mouth, his previously bright smile fading into amused mystification.

 

Pancakes- _fucking pancakes_ \- fry innocently on the stove.

 

The feeling is so incredibly underwhelming and so utterly infuriating that Chris doesn’t drop the lamp but runs at Darren instead, waving it above his head like a deranged viking.

 

“I cannot fucking _believe you_ ,” Chris cries, and Darren yelps, holding his arms above his head and cowering into the kitchen island. Chris thinks he can hear the awful man  _laughing_. He’s about to give him a piece of his mind when he realises that while the lamp may be ugly, it’s still metal, and he doesn’t hate Darren  _that_  much. His face is far too pretty for that.

 

Chris settles for shoving the lamp aside, grabbing him by the shirt, and shaking him- a lot. Darren stands there the entire time, silent tears of laughter streaming down his face.

 

Eventually, Chris stops, chest heaving with effort. Relief fills his body like floodwaters, and inexplicably, he sags into Darren, wrapping his arms around his neck and holding on tight. Darren holds him back, still laughing, and now probably just a little bit concerned, what with the way Chris is trembling.

 

He rubs Chris’ back gently, and for once he’s glad that Darren isn’t the type to do the awkward pat thing- he’s far too tactile and generous with comfort for that. There’s a low and careful murmur by his ear:

 

“Hey, you okay?”

 

Chris pulls himself out of Darren’s arms in a desperate attempt to maintain some sort of dignity. “I’m fine  _now_ ,” he says roughly, feeling uncomfortable under the all-exposing lights. Chris lifts his eyes to glare at Darren. “But five minutes ago I was pretty certain I was going to be  _killed_.”

 

Darren places his hands on Chris’ arms, rubbing up and down to get rid of the goosebumps. To his credit, he doesn’t laugh. “Why?”

 

Chris huffs. “I don’t know, why else would there be someone in my kitchen at three o'clock in the morning?”

 

“I was making pancakes.”

 

“I didn’t know that when I was hyperventilating in my room  _alone_.”

 

“You gave me a key.”

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Chris agrees exasperatedly, trying to dispel the blush in his cheeks at the memory of  _that_  exchange, “but it’s  _three in the morning_.”

 

“I was lonely,” says Darren simply. His thumbs swipe patterns on Chris’ skin. “And you like my pancakes.”

 

Chris softens, just a little bit. “I guess so,” he says, looking over at the neat stack on the counter. The poor pancake Darren had been cooking, however, is burned to a dejected crisp. “We might need to throw that one out though.”

 

A tendril of smoke starts to billow out of it, and Darren laughs. “I think we might.”

 

***

 

“I’m sorry I scared you,” says Darren quietly. They’re wrapped up on the sofa, eating pancakes with sticky fingers, staring at the black TV screen. Chris tucks his toes under Darren’s thighs to warm them up.

 

“That’s okay.”

 

“No, really,” Darren insists. “I didn't mean to. I just assumed you’d be up since you have a weird sleeping schedule and all that.”

 

“I have to be up at seven most days, Dare.”

 

Darren, if anything, looks even more guilty. Chris sets aside his plate and crawls up to meet him. He leans over for a soft, syrup-flavoured kiss.

 

“It’s okay,” he repeats. “I do like your pancakes. If you promise to make them whenever I ask, I’ll let you come over every night.”

 

Darren grins. “You say that like there’s nothing ever in it for you.”

 

“Oh, is there?” Chris asks, quirking an eyebrow. “I didn’t know…”

 

Darren’s eyes flicker down once more to Chris’ lips. “I can show you.”

 

A flush rises up to his cheeks. Darren sticks to his word, and Chris is shown very, very well.


End file.
